Raven chuckled.
The sound came from directly behind her ear — warm, low, the specific amusement of a man who has just been handed a sentence that tells him exactly where the boundaries are and therefore exactly where to press.
"What not do," he said, the words shaped like a question and delivered like anything but.
His hand kneaded.
The full, generous weight of her ass compressed and released under his palm — the thick, juicy flesh giving easily, shaped by his strong grip, the soft, meaty clap of her heavy cheeks through the thin skirt fabric — and he worked it the way he worked everything, with the patient, unhurried attention of a man who has decided this fat ass belongs to him and is confirming the fact by squeezing and spreading the plump globes like dough.
His fingers found the hem.
Slid it upward.
